The Orchestrated Symphony of Adulthood Part 2(Previously as Life Anew)
by pheloxiraptor
Summary: The second sequence of a third part series has return: Max is acquainted with one of her idols, Nicolas Bruno, who depicts his art in such a way to reveal the horrors and terrors of sleep paralysis, which him and Max have; and Chloe's dark secret has finally unravel by the end: what could make her secret so painful to Max that she begins to think reality is just a endless nightmare


The Orchestrated Symphony of Adulthood

Max revved the engines of her rusty, old, dependable green Toyota Camry and took a moment of this solitude to reflect on her life before turning on the radio and cruising down to her occupation, where she will probably be greeted by her students more often than the members of the faculty and administration staff. Her thoughts wandered off to an event that were to occur in the evening: she was going to meet one of her favorite photography artist Nicolas Bruno, who, like her, has sleep paralysis, and uses his art form to capture each character, in his photographs, in an immobile state while horrible things were to foist upon them, it simultaneously made her cringed, seeing that she was one of many Jefferson's guinea pigs for the purpose of rectifying his purification effect on his so-called experimental art, where his test subjects have whatsoever no consent to enhance his secretive art form. But she was happy that she was alive while the thought of it shouldered the misfortunes of making it out of there alive with the knowledge of how many people Jefferson killed; she wish she have the power to rewind back when Jefferson was a little kid and kill him, but the idea of killing a little kid before he turned into a serial killer made her stop and reflect at how much she has sunk so low and she was better than. She was no better than him, she killed an entire town, and how these thought processed in her mind, made her a total hypocrite.

Going to Attic Gallery would be an exciting moment for her since she was going to be with her friend, Emma Walsh, whom she met whilst teaching in school; and it would also be a very nerve-wrecking experience because her agent will introduce her to Nicolas Bruno, and by that being said her agent has schedule an appointment with the board of directors, and depending by how the interview goes and how much they are impressed by her artworks, they might finally put her works on display, and she can finally tell Chloe that she was an accomplished artist. Although, her anxiety hits her square in the face as she began contemplating over the thoughts of getting rejected, and the repercussion that comes with it, like the miseries and agonies that always come with being a tortured artist, she might as well cut off her ear like Van Gogh; nevertheless, she cannot predict the future, so it might be better if she wasn't such a worrywart about it now.

Her car reversed out of the car port, but before she drove off to work, she saw her landlady walking down the stairs of the apartment complex really slowly with her back hunched over because of her old age. Max felt really bad for her and her husband, seeing that she and Chloe were always the only tenants to be late on their rent, and with her income from school and the income from freelancing, she could scrap up enough to pay for last month rent and this month rent.

"Mrs. Zhang, do you need me to help you get down the stairs?" Max opened up the window by the passenger's seat to speak with her.

"No, I'm fine, dear." The elderly Oriental woman said, wincing every word as she made it at the bottom of the stairs.

"Would you like me to buy you anything? Tonight I'm going to Downtown Portland: I could buy you and Mr. Zhang some barbequed ducks or some dim sum?"

"No, that would be fine." The elderly woman went to the mailbox to withdraw some mails and filter out some junk mail.

"I'm sorry about the rent; me and Chloe will do what we can to pay up."

The elderly landlady wobbled down to Max like a penguin. "It's okay, dear. By the end of this month, I expect you to pay at least four thousand dollars because the owner is coming home from Taiwan and expect your dues be paid."

"Four thousand, will do, Mrs. Zhang! I promise I'll give it to you by the end of this month."

"I'm sure you can, Max, because I have your words."

"Thank you, Mrs. Zhang. You sure you don't want me to buy you something."

"No, thank you, Ms. Caulfield." Mrs. Zhang produced a grocery bag of pears and bestow it to Max. "You need all the energies and powers you can to live a healthy, well-being life, because you never look too good, and neither is Chloe."

"Thank you, Mrs. Zhang!" Max accepted the bag of freshly-harvested, pestilent-free pears. "I've been feeling really good lately, what about you?"

"Never better: I learned that my son is finally going to give me the grandkids I need in my life. Me and my husband are very proud of him. I thought his low virility had caused him to not give me the grandkids I wanted, but it was his blind ambition of making more money that would not let him settle down and have a family."

"Congratulation, Mrs. Zhang, I'm very happy for you and your family."

"Thank you! You should leave now; your kids need you."

"Right, I'm on it. Bye Mrs. Zhang, I'll see you later."

"You, too, dear." Mrs. Zhang waved good-by as Max rammed the accelerator and adjusted her rearview mirror to see Mrs. Zhang walking back to her apartment. She loves Mrs. Zhang because she was very lenient and nice, unlike her husband, whose judgmental propensities towards LGBTQIA made Max and Chloe pissed off but they liked him because he has a soft, compassionate side for nature and animals, so that totally balances out their animosity. Seeing all those trays of leftovers food in the alley which Mr. Zhang spend his spare time feeding those poor, stray creatures, made Max happy yet sad. Mr. Zhang might not like people whose sexuality different from the normalcy, but he will always be a good man for his good deeds. There are times when you have to plant a seed in people's brains and watch it grow like a chia pet; and maybe, one of these days, Mr. Zhang would be more tolerant to them after all, or just be less angry at them.

Max checked her rearview mirror one last time to see if Mrs. Zhang left, but the image of Mr. Jefferson permeated into her reality as he began appearing and disappearing from her backseats. She froze completely before moving. Her eyes could move and her respiratory system persisted to work rapidly and uncontrollably as the thought of Mark Jefferson behind her, rendered her scared and immobile. She tried maneuver her eyes to see the rearview mirror again, and Jefferson was no longer there, this gave her the courage to turn her head and her whole body to see if the mirror was correct. Mark Jefferson was not in the backseats. He is dead. She constantly had to remind herself about his death and that his soul was burning in hell.

Max switched the radio on and drove through her neighborhood until she got into the 405 freeway, and from there she could see Mount Hood looming over the city while she crossed into another interstate and exit from there. If she had resided in Los Angeles, it would have been hell because the freeways and the streets were always congested, but lucky for her she used the rail lines to get to Art Center College of Design in Pasadena, and not be bothered with a car as she would often times used the subway. What she didn't like about Los Angeles was that it was too noisy and the air quality was terrible, over here in Portland, it offered an expanse of bicycle routes and local commute reliable for everyone's needs at an affordable cost, although renting for a two bedroom apartment in a nice, environmental neighborhood from where she lived, was pretty steep.

She rounded the intersection of Wiggum and Bouvier, where Parkland Elementary was located, and parked her car by the sidewalk, three blocks away from the school. She stepped out of the car and withdrew her bags and strolled up the hill to her workplace. Already, by the entrance, she was greeted by her students and former students as they walked past her, emitting their cuteness with their smiles and ignorance. Max saw what she thought were the fourth graders and fifth graders, playing with their hologram phones and taking selfies, and there she wanted to step right in front of them and tell them, "back in my days, we didn't have any of those gadgets, you self-centered pricks!" but she was alarmed and frightened by how tall these girls were getting, and how perverted these boys were getting in this recent generation. Sure, she'd taken selfies before but she realized how stupid it is right now, and besides it was not like she goes to Facebook anymore: she was getting really tired of seeing people happy, living in their "perfect" life, when she could live her life happily with Chloe, without having to broadcast it on the internet.

She remembered the times of Nintendo Game Boy and trading card games and playground frolics when she was as young as she could remember; she remembered Chloe with whom she played pirates in her background and watched Spongebob Squarepants. Being a child had so much spiritual essence than being an adult, and she missed those days more often than when she was back in Seattle with her parents and Chloe while settling for community college, or the days at Art Center College of Design.

Max went to her class and got everything settled down as the school bell rang, warning the children to get to class immediately before the tardy bell rings. Max adores her students because they were cute and adorable to look at, and they weren't always preoccupied with the latest, coolest gadgets, instead these children prefer using the old, traditional materials such as pencils and papers and crayons - thank goodness, these things did not go extinct, even if it has been ten years since Arcadia Bay was destroyed. What she saw in these children were the innocence and purity she perceived directly from Kate Marsh, and how she remembered the promise she made with her at the hospital about taking photographs for her illustration book, made for the children who are bullied in school, or prevent them from bullying other children, thus making her think of Victoria and her Vortex clans; but deep beneath Victoria's façade was just a lost, insecure girl who wants to be saved.

As the children settled down in their seats, Max did a row call then forced them to finish a warm-up assignment on the board, and afterwards some classwork assignments while she checked everyone's homework. Some of the students here had learning and behavioral difficulties, so during lunch, when the students left to eat at the cafeteria and frolicked in the playgrounds, but there was one student that needed immediate help more than anything, and she always have a special place in her heart.

"Excuse me, Zelda, but when you get your lunch, please come to the class immediately."

Her classmates were taunting her, immaturely: "Ooh! You're getting in trouble!"; "I know what you did last night: you didn't do your homework again!"; "She's going to hurt our chance to watch Scooby-doo in class." Zelda was on the verge of tears as her eyes were becoming watery and reddish but Max stopped them immediately.

"Enough, kids," Max scolded. "Why don't you all get lunch. The line is getting pretty long." Her students scrambled to the exit and vaulted across the concrete field to the cafeteria where they got in line for lunch. Max looked at Zelda who was in her seat, moping at how much she hated her classmates. "You're not getting lunch."

"My mom made me lunch…Mrs. Caulfield…am I in trouble?" Zelda inquired, timidly like a poor puppy with the big, round, quintessential eyes, peering over its owner.

"I promise you: you're not in trouble, but I can't say about your homework progress, it's getting really worse, and I don't like it when I have to apply a sticker of a very sad face on the chart."

"When I get home, I always forget to do it."

"Didn't I tell you to at least write it down on a student planner that the school gives you?"

"It never crosses my mind, Ms. Caulfield." She jutted her bottom lips and squirm like she needed to go to the restroom.

Max couldn't help but feel a great sympathy for her student, even though she had a soft, squeaky innocent voice and donned a hoodie and an ugly Christmas sweater with a reindeer head protruding out, Max could not find it in her heart to get angry at a small, fragile yet cute, adorable girl - which often times struck her as she began to remind her of Chloe at that age of purity and innocence.

Max shared some of Mrs. Zhang's pears with Zelda while she called her mother. "Hello, Mrs. Mathis, I'm sorry to interrupt you while you're working…but your child, Zelda, never finishes her homework that I assigned her, and she seems to have trouble paying attention to the lesson I give her during class."

Mrs. Mathis sounded kind of upset on the phone that Max could listen to the Spanish words spluttering out of her mouth. Max understood Spanish but was not able to speak the language when the accent and enunciations were so hard for her to incite. She tried consoling her by attempting to walk into her student, Zelda's shoe. "If you want, I could enroll her in the Individualized Education Program, or IEP, but first she should get herself checked and diagnosed by a child psychologist, we have that in our school."

Mrs. Mathis took that suggestion as an insinuation that led her to believe frantically that her child might be a failure, or her child might be mentally-ill, but Max tried to convince her in her soothing voice that Zelda was neither a failure or a psychopath. "She might have attention-deficit hyperactive disorder, I would know because I, too, have that conditions, and I used to be in individualized education program myself, and that doesn't make me as crazy and wild as you think. Sometimes, people are very different than what society imposed for people to follow a certain standards, Mrs. Mathis."

Max was very scared: if Mrs. Mathis found that she was in a Sapphic relationship with Chloe from anyone then, by George, she would consider Max as an untrustworthy person on whom she would not rely her trust and faith. Mrs. Mathis was a very conservative and pious woman, but she was indeed a good, conscientious person whose charitable works and donations expanded from building small houses for the homeless in Portland to building futures for the children around the world, so Max did not have the right to judge; and needless to say, she considered Max's suggestion to administer her daughter into the program, even though she did not have much knowledge of mental illnesses and disorders like Max did. "No problem, Mrs. Mathis, I will do what I can to discipline Zelda into doing her homework, and it is not a problem to have her in class. I'm a teacher, and this is what I usually do since I am only following the job description. No problem, Mrs. Mathis: thank you and good bye."

She turned to Zelda and gave her an attention slip: "Give that to your mother, please. And…Zelda, you have to do your homework, no excuses."

"But I sometimes forget to do them." Zelda whined.

"After school ends, I have an after-school workshop so you can finish your homework here in school than at home."

"But-"

"No more excuses from now on, Zelda. You will attend this after school session as well as every other day until you finally remember to do them at home."

"Fine!" Zelda said, glumly and grunted her way to her seat, eating her lunch ravenously. Max now discovered why Chloe wants to have children so badly, their adorability was over-exceeding especially when they get angry, and don't get Max started when a child pouted, you just want to hug them until they die of embarrassment - figuratively, though.

After the school ends, the homework workshop was in session, and only a few attended the workshop that afternoon, including Zelda, who was pouting and slumping from her seat. Max warned her to sit up if she did not want to acquire osteoporosis at an old age, and ultimately, Zelda inclined to follow what Max ordered her to do. Suddenly, a tall, freckled, afro-haired, caramel-skinned woman walked inside her classroom, and Max's students were discordant over her.

A brutish-looking boy said: "Who's that lady?"

Zelda chimed in: "Sexy lady."

Then one of the students recognized her: "You're my brother's fourth-grade teacher!"

The woman beamed at her: "Yes, I am, and you better tell your brother to behave himself, or I might put him back where he belongs: in detention!"

Max greeted the woman with a wry smile: "Hi, Emma."

"Well, sheesh, Max, you don't look too good."

"A lot of things are happening right now."

"Oh, my god, they're friend!" One of the students shouted, and another one said, imprudently: "I thought teachers don't have friends." Max and Emma laughed at their students' crude remarks and talked about the event tonight.

"I still can't believe Jonathan could pull that off: he got us tickets to Attic Gallery, it's like a VIP lounge for artists; and if my mama - may God bless her soul - were alive right now, she would tell the entire neighborhood that Max Caulfield is finally an accomplished artist!" Emma exclaimed.

"You know: it's…nothing, really." Max said, modestly.

"Nothing? I need to clean my ears more often, girl."

"Really, Jonathan is going to hook me up with the board of directors and the art gallery manager, and we'll see how it goes from there."

"Couldn't you be more enthusiastic? Because this is your debut to the art world."

"Regardless on how hard I try, Emma, being an accomplished artist and all, I still get rejected, so I need to be more realistic on this approach; and besides, I have always been in the art world since I could remember; I never win an art competition, that's for sure, but I have always been a part of that world, where all sorts of idealism come to mind."

"Why don't you try digital from now on? It's more of a sophisticated technology since, after all, you can render your images on photoshop."

"Like Aegis Strife, but I do digital when I can upload stock images onto the internet; however I analog is art, for me, though, it's my preference. There's something about traditional vintage stuff I like than those latest digital gizmos. "

"I don't know what you see in the vintage steam-punk gadgets, but it wouldn't matter. Is Chloe going with you?"

"Yes, she will attend, but she will be a little late since her job is in Salem."

"Tough break for the economy…I meant isn't Portland going strong with the employment rate increasing."

"Not everyone could get a job in Portland since Chloe has some misdemeanors in her record."

"Yeah, human resources and employment agencies here are very strict on that…but at least Salem is willing to hire her. She must love being a guidance counselor."

"She loves helping people."

Max went home afterwards: it was a long day and she was really exhausted, but tonight's event had her pronounce more energies and anxieties than ever before. When she got to her domicile, she saw Chloe's old, rusted truck in the parking lot, it was rare to see Chloe return home so early, usually she would come home at around eight thru ten at night: this was definitely a rare sight for Max to register. Also, a red minivan had taken her carport, forcing Max to park by the sidewalk; afterwards she launched out of the car and scurried to the red minivan in her carport.

She peered through the tinted window just so she could have a better understanding of whom this person was, but this car was burgeoned with trash and papers and litters of food just scattering everywhere, so nothing as suspicious as to this person's gender, or if this person had any connection with Chloe. Max looked around the exterior especially the rears to see if there were any bumpers, and there were a bit of a few Max could definitely juxtaposed them in association with Chloe: one was a bumper sticker that said the AA (Alcohol Anonymous) and the other one was inscribed: "Support our troops." Her muscles began to strain intensely as she went upstairs to her apartment that her sleep paralysis had permeated in her vigil. Delving into the pockets to find the keys, she unlock the door and the first thing she heard when she entered were chatters until the words and noises fades into silence.

"Max," Chloe asked as she came to the entrance corridor. "is that you?"

"Chloe…um, why are you home so early?" Max squinted as her eyes began to strain due to lack of sleep.

"Why not? It's my home, too; and besides, Maximillion Pegasus, today is your big day so…come over here." Chloe took her by the hand, and Max could hear her heart pounding against her rib cage as Chloe's soft, pungent skin touches hers. She led Max to the living room: "I like you to meet my friends at the AA." She pointed at the tall, bald bulk with a dog tags around his neck. "That's Hunter: you won't forget his name because of his bulky size." Then she pointed to a pompous drag queen. "That's Stephen - I meant Stephanie - oh, about this guy, he works at Baghdad theater in Downtown Portland: cool, huh?" Then she pulled Max to the kitchen where she introduced her to the final guest: a pregnant woman. "And last but not least is Erin: she's in her second trimester." Max was at the doorway, peering at Chloe playing with the woman's swollen belly as the woman giggled as Chloe's cold, clammy hand touches her sensitive skin. "Well, don't just stand there like a zombie, Max, come over here. Don't be scared; you can touch her belly." Chloe pulled Max in and placed her hand onto Erin's swollen baby, and Max could smell the ocean breeze-fragrance of Chloe's blue hair dye passing her way.

"Is it going to be a boy or a girl?" Max asked.

"Oh, I don't really have an idea, but I don't really want to know: it's not right to unwrap a gift from God until the time is right." Erin's voice was soft and very discreet like a wind whistling through a series of pine trees, and her breath was fresh and aromatic.

"You want to place your ear against her belly?" Chloe insisted.

"No, Chloe, please," Max tried to pull out from her strong grasp.

"Oh, Max, this is a beautiful thing in the world and you're scared shitless."

"I'm sorry, it's just so daunting."

"Oh, only Max would get scared of a little unborn baby." Chloe teased, but Max did not find it funny, seeing that she was scared of babies, and would frequently imagine her dropping the baby.

"I'm going to feed our guests." She bound directly to the refrigerator.

"You don't need to, Max, we're going to a restaurant before the big opening." Chloe said.

"Um…maybe you should go to the restaurant while I get ready for my portfolio."

"Then we'll wait for you before going."

"It might take a long time."

"At least half an hour you might say?"

"I don't know maybe a half an hour before the grand opening of Nicolas Bruno's exhibition."

"Are you serious, Max? That's like in three hours." Max nodded to her question, because it never pique Chloe's mind that most artist are always inclined to make their art portfolio look spectacularly perfect before having it debut for that special upcoming interview with a brigade of brown-nosers.

"Fine, we can always order takeouts." Chloe said, reluctantly.

"I don't mind if you guys go ahead and eat out at the restaurant while I'm categorizing."

"No way, Max, I'm not leaving you; and besides, I brought my friends here because they want to see your work, so entertain them Maxi-pad," Max nudged Chloe hard on her shoulder and Erin giggled ecstatically, "and I will head off and buy some Chinese takeouts. I'll be back as soon as I can." Chloe automatically turned on the television for Hunter to let him watch some sports entertainment and left the vicinity.

Max could hear Chloe's car skidding off from the car port and made a drive onto the road, then she was galvanized as to leap off in the air like a frightened cat that saw its reflection in the water when Erin touched her on the shoulder, it did nothing to soothe Max from anxiety of making an impression with the brigade of brown-nosers.

"Are you all right? You look really tensed." Erin inquired, pensively like a gentle mother caring for her child. Erin would definitely make a great mother, unlike Max, who was frightened that she would make a terrible mother by scaring the poor, innocent child.

"I'm really fine. Help yourself with whatever it is in the refrigerator." Max said.

"Thank you so much, Max, but I don't mind waiting for Chloe to bring us some takeouts, and do you need any help with your art portfolio."

"No, that's all right."

"I get it: an artist loves to be alone with their art, it is, for them, a time of solitude and solace for which you need in order to meditate and seek your purpose in this world."

"Thanks for understanding: usually, people always mistaken an artist for a delusional individual and a taboo."

"That's the twenty-first century for you as there's no better virtue than solitude and patience ."

Max vaulted to the guest bedroom, where she did her model photography and does headshot pictures for people whose passions were pursuing entertainment purposes like acting or modeling, or for those who were pursuing ulterior motives such as getting a passport photos to acquire the long, tedious protocol of establishing citizenship in this belligerent, corporate nation. Seriously, what's wrong with Canada. Not that Max was xenophobic, or has any hatred towards immigrants, but America still needed to resolve their immigration policies since Obama administration; and she understood Canada is looking for skilled technicians, but she despised how pathetic and stupid America approached with immigrants. Max was glad of living in the United States, where she can pursue her passions without being intimidated, or harassed by an authoritative force, but nevertheless she didn't like being labeled as an American, because nationalities are just a privileged thing for people who wants a sense of belonging; the only sense of belonging she will ever have is with Chloe and her friends, and the people she cares for in her life, regardless of their races, nationalities, ethnicities, or whatever category that put them in a barrier.

She was organizing her art portfolio, although she had arranged and allotted it for over two weeks since Jonathan, her agent, had mentioned to her about the appointment he scheduled a month ago; but then again let us never forget that Max has obsessive-compulsive disorder, so it was no wonder why she feels like her art portfolio would never be good enough for the brown-nosers, and even the public's eyes, if she did not approach this interview like an awaiting time bomb to explode. It was mind-boggling for her to see everything in her portfolio to be so disorganized and disheveled, when from everyone's perspective, it was pretty immersive and neatly organized with categories ranging from landscapes to dark horror, but back to the computer lab she went as she dabbled on a few ideas for another portfolio renovation - this would count as her sixth times already.

Before she turned on her desktop, she heard the phone ringing in her bedroom so to her bedroom she went as she scurried down the hall and into her bedroom. But the ringtone sounded so unusual, not like her girlfriend's preferential ringtone of indie punk rock music conducting euphorically; and when she found the phone in Chloe's jacket pocket, she didn't dare press the neon-green answer button, because it had finally strike her that the phone she was clutching in her firm hand didn't even belong to Chloe. The area code number was from Salem, and this arise so many questions encircling in her poor, burdensome head, and her whole entire body was aching and it was hardening on the fringe of immobilization like Hermoine had paralyze her with a petrificus-totalus spell. Her chest was seizing, and this only happened after she woke up from a nightmare, but the spell was too weak and she deflected it, and finally Max did the first thing she could cogitate immediately: she hurried straight to the desktop with the burner phone, or disposable phone, and search for the caller's phone number on Google search engine. It wasn't stalking lest the person's number was online and publicly viewed.

When she couldn't find the person's phone number online because she has to pay a fee, and have to sign up for an account and everything, but Max didn't have time, seeing the fact that Chloe would return home sooner than she thinks. So what she did was that she collected all the audacities she could gather in her and call the person privately in the guest bedroom with the door closed so neither of Chloe's friends could hear a peep of word she would say to whoever this caller was. Max took her time trying to call this person as tried to mitigating her stress and strained muscles by oscillating around the room and pondering on the very subject of whether she should choose to call this person. Her paces begun to increase in crescendo as the volume could be heard through the living room where the sports entertainment news went on a commercial break. One last time, she took a deep breath and call the number immediately, the ringing began to intensify, and she was perspiring all over and her breathing began to come off rapidly like she was induced to go on labor, or something akin to that, because whatever feeling she could accumulate through her senses was very complicated to comprehend. Her breathing suddenly surcease until the other line immediately picked up, and she was struck by a soft, caressing voice. The one who possessed the soft, caressing voice, told Max everything and answer every question Max has in store for everything she was so oblivious and dumbstruck. Finally hanging up, Max had came to the discovery of unearthing Chloe's deep dark secret, it made her sense of belonging for the future diminished completely; but she had to stay strong: it's what Chloe wanted her to do.

At around seven in the evening, Max and the companies drove around the Pearl District in Downtown Portland where the Old Town Chinatown was also in. There were many art galleries including the Duplex and the Right Side which were at the heart of Old Town Chinatown; but the gallery Max and the companies were invited was by the Wattamette River, but Chinatown was across so Max could shop for traditional Eastern remedies for her landlords, the Zhangs. It was pouring rain and very windy by the time they arrived to the Attic Gallery: there weren't a crowd of people, like a stadium full, although this was a grand opening, Max expected a maximum of two hundred people to arrive, but it was approximately one-fourth of what she asked for, as she crossed over the threshold. She appreciated the low population density here because a gallery deluged of people would be like an elevator or a subway full of people, and the very thought of it made her claustrophobic. Before, she had no qualm with being around a whole field of people, even at a hockey rink with her father, but things change; everything changes.

The Attic Gallery was like a luxurious loft: brick-walled; spacious enough for people to come about; floored windows; a holistic fountain that geysers out soft, frizzy drinks from the cupid's mouth and into your champagne cups; an immaculate, eucalyptus-fragrance restrooms for him and her; a nice jazz bar where people could just mope and drink to heal their souls; and partitions employed for the arts to be displayed in the middle of the room, obscuring everyone's peripheral vision as they attempt to find their friends. Chloe and her friends scurried away from the liquor area as much as possible but their temptation to drink and find the philosophical of the void at the bottom of their glass was dampened by the tantalizing anticipation of Max, and her big opportunity to finally get her work display here at the Attic. The tempest queen of the fermented, unquenchable taste of alcohol, that left Chloe and her friends dry for so long, has lost this round, but their battle against it still continues.

Chloe placed her hand gently at Max's bare shoulder, but Max recoiled momentarily, seeing it was her lover who had touched her, and not the other patrons.

"Are you all right?" Chloe inquired. "You seem a little….strange. You didn't talk much while we were in the cars. Is everything okay?"

She avoided the eye contact that Chloe was giving. "Yeah…I'm okay. I'm just concerned…if things might not go as I have hope for."

"…gods, Max…for once, be an optimist. Your whole life you've been showing me and the people on the internet your artworks. People on tumblr find your polaroids fantastic because you didn't manipulated on photoshop; don't forget those instant and analog cameras enthusiasts you befriended on deviantart; and those people who are donating their hard-earned money for you on ; and that fabulous art portfolio you put on bechance, it's inspiring. Max, you put in a lot of hard work and effort into your art: you might not be famous or popular as Rachel Ambers would have envisioned it once she was in Los Angeles and set off to a modeling agency, but this is a chance for you to inspire people. I'm going to be brutally realistic here: you might not inspire everyone with your ideas and philosophies, but you can inspire those who finds your art as a frontier to a life of greatness and failures, of glories and loss, of…whatever it is that might compel them to pursue…something. Whatever it is, Max, you can do anything your heart contends; and if this one fails, there will always be people out there, whether it is in Seattle, New York, Boston, San Francisco, probably the heart of Japan, that will find your artworks intriguing." Chloe patted her shoulders and kissed her on the forehead. "This is your time to shine."

Silence engulfed Max: her eyes were swollen and puffy and her spirits and essence drained from her face as she turned pallid and cold as her eyes seized the sight occasionally occurring outside the gallery where a dark, foreboding figure suddenly slid across the floored window. Chloe looked perplexed: "What's wrong, Max? It's like you seen a ghost." Then the Master of Ceremony entered the room with a loud salutary declaration that caused Max to jump. Emma saw this and asked if she were okay and Max nodded and turned to the direction of the dais on which carried the spectacular Nicolas Bruno, whose messy profusion of hair and frugal Amish appearance conveyed a sinister, terrifying atmosphere to the audience as well as the high octave-excitement they would procured expediently from him because of his notorious eccentricity and caprices that makes him a favorite to young, aspiring photographers everywhere. His intense brown eyes pierced directly at everyone's eyes with a magnitude of a serial killer and an extremely tortured artist as he awaits for their warm applause and his standing ovation for actually committing to participate in the event.

"Greetings and salutations, ladies and gentlemen. I do apologized that I am late, but there was a food truck with a pig on top of the roof that I had to chase. My principal concern was that it might actually be a façade for a cannibal eatery, or something…I don't fucking know…and not to be cruel but…the depiction of the pig was abysmal, even though it was used satirically in a very inappropriate, cartoonish way: the pig was tied with a rope and as usual there was an apple in its mouth. I find that as an offensive insult to people with sleep paralysis like me- what a fucking cruel world."

Everyone roared in laughter, although Max and Chloe did not really find it that hilarious, but everyone had to cackle and laugh automatically whenever the Master of Ceremony performed a joke because it was disrespectful when they don't.

"I enjoyed their Hogsmeat, which kind of sound like Hogsmeade, a magical place somewhere in the Harry Potter universe, but it was a dish from the Pig-in-the-Pen which was notoriously known for: it was a grilled bun splattered with fried onions and roasted garlic and raw vegetables like a slice of juicy, plump tomatoes, lettuces, slices of jalapenos brined with honey vinaigrette, and not-so-special, nondescript red onions…but that wasn't the best part: it included three stacks of charbroiled, black-peppered, mushroomed, pork that oozes harmoniously with fresh potatoes fries that you would get in In-N-Out Burgers, melted romantically with swiss cheese, cheddars and mozarella cheese, all wrapped together into one colossal sandwich that could barely fit inside your mouth. …but fuck me, that wasn't even the best part yet. The best part was having it inside my mouth as the heterogeneous combination of lards, fats, honey mustard, srachi sauce, mayonnaise, and melted cheese dripped onto my tongue as my teeth then finally clenched onto the burger and ripped a portion of it: I was in heaven." He moaned at the reminiscence, then he woke up from the confusion and made a disappointed remark as he licked his fingers for a trace of those delectable sauce that came with the burger. "It cost me thirty dollars and I still have onion breath."

He guided them around the gallery like a docent, but all these artworks belonged to him so it was superlatively intuitive when he explained to them his artworks without missing any detail and with an intense passion that roused the women to find him an exceptional preference to have his kids. He showed them his favorites, the ones that catapulted him to the peak of success and game. One was depicting a blindfolded, incarcerated man facing a cannon following a man behind the cannon, mounting the artillery at the paralyzed man like he was taking a photo with a camera on a tripod, or something akin to that. Following that came another photograph portraying a blindfolded hostage tied to a chair as his legs were free to run away from his captors. Afterwards, he showed them yet another blindfolded man sitting cordially on a chair as a torched chair came directly at him. And last but not least was a mysterious figure, donning an old, steampunkish diver outfit, climbing up the ladder from the murky water.

"This is what sleep paralysis is to me: it is art; it is for me to communicate to those who is not equip with the faintest idea of what it is like to be walking into those uncharted territories where you are conscious in reality, or worse- in your dream - as your chest is piled with rocks and stones, and your limbs are completely useless, and somewhere, hiding from your vision, is your fear sitting in the corner, waiting, just waiting to dominate your empty vessel so it can eat you alive to suicide. Sometimes, you can't breathe because you feel like you're drowning in the ocean, fighting the rapacious currents as a tidal waves hits you square in the chest over and over again. And you see things appearing and vanishing before you: you have to remind yourself that it is all in your head because your mind is pulling the strings here and there. I want to clarify that, sometimes, sleep paralysis is like having a mirror across a window, and with that, it's night outside, and you keep looking at yourself in the mirror because you believe you're special and everything revolves around you, until you see something in the reflection where the window stands and you freaked out completely as you come to believe that someone is outside. Your instinct tells you to shut the curtains and everything that resembled the outside world, hindering you from coming out because…someone out there is coming to get you, or the world is coming after you. But no one is outside: it is all in your head. Everyone who ever represses you to follow their standard is a fool, but you're a bigger fool who have to follow them around like a leashed dog. Now you know the overwhelmed feeling of being burdened with sleep paralysis: it is a constant nightmare that comes but never leaves, though it is treatable."

Everyone looked so pale, including Max, who felt like Hermoine's stunt spell really did the trick. The weather outside was so cold and the air conditioner was operating the entire facility of the gallery, making every fright-fest very realistic. The man of the hour kept bulging his eyes when he talked and throw off a tantrum here and there, convincing everyone at how frightening the symptoms of sleep paralysis really is. He then continued: "This is a very special event where supposedly a lot of people should be here, but I only invited my special guests and their family and friends. I guess you can say this is like an intervention as well as a tour because…seven of my several patrons here have what I have explained: sleep paralysis. Please identity yourself."

Four people have the audacity to reveal themselves from the rest of the crowd, and one of them was not Max Caulfield as she came in as the last of the seventh. They were all in consternation as to what they did not expect this to occur from the grand opening: an intervention, but everyone identified themselves as the victim of sleep paralysis an artist, however no one was as versatile and sleek as the talented Maxine Caulfield: her Polaroids have evidently proved to everyone that patience is a fantastic aesthetic form. A few of the victims -including Max - had not a single drop of courage in them to narrate their entire stories of what it is like to have sleep paralysis. Max was not a great storyteller like that writer, who was verbalizing with great frequencies of disturbing and grotesque imageries, along side that vigorous voice that chilled her right to the bone, leaving her stiff and rigid temporarily, however his chilling stories attracted the ears of those who were eager to hear more of his frightening tales. A writer can also be an artist as well, for instance, J.R. Tolkien, George Lucas, Mary Shelley, Edgar Allan Poe and more, anyone whose work was reputable for being ahead of their time, or reputable for capricious and unusual.

The ongoing grotesque lore intensified, making their surroundings more cold and atmospheric, and the tension enhanced when the writer were on the verge of telling them the scariest part yet, their eyes bulged and their body leaned closer to him as his volume in which he told the tales, became more soft and quiet like a whisper. The good part was coming until the art gallery manager and board of directors arrive, freaking them - including the writer - to have a sudden heart attack. Their intervention was surcease because of their arrival as they heralded the bad news and the good news: of course, the bad news always comes first then came the arrival of the good news. Bad news: there won't be an interview; but though, here comes the good news: all the artists were all admitted to join together in ranks for the promotion of the winter catalog and next month gallery exhibitions.

The good news brought waves of excitement, cheers and panegyric all through the gallery. Chloe gloated at Max and wanted to brag all over her face, but Max had nothing more to say, and tried to avoid Chloe as completely as she can. When Chloe tried to hug her, Max spontaneously dashed to the girls' restroom as an instinct to get out of dodge, while Jonathan, her agent, and Emma wanted to congratulate her on her succession. Seeing this revelatory scenario unraveled, they went to Chloe instead and asked what was wrong with her, but Chloe could not call forth the faintest idea as to the strange, erratic behavior which Max was exhibiting.

Max entered the restroom: she went to the sink, turn the faucet on, and splash a handful of lukewarm water onto her face. She craned her neck up to see her reflection: her eyes were red and sunken; her lips were cracks and blistered by the cold; and the colors were drained automatically from her face. She backed away from the sink and began comforting herself: "It's cool, Max Caulfield. Live in the moment. Don't think of what happened. But…but….I can't stop thinking about it what that girl just said…Chloe can't be…"

She hated public restrooms: it reminded her so much of the time in Blackwell Academy when that stupid, sapphire-hued butterfly flew by from the ventilation system then Nathan came and shot Chloe in the stomach. Seeing how much Chloe has grown, from a reckless teenager to a more responsible, overbearing adult, this was what the world had reveal to Max: that she needed to let go.

A tingling sensation pounced on her neck when she saw a dark, enigmatic figure crawling across the restroom floor. Well, she thought she saw it, but clearly, her eyes and mind were playing a trick on her imagination. The room got colder because of her wild, erratic imagination, although that did not stop her from thinking about it. She became more vigil as she keeps splashing her face with lukewarm water each time she had the chance, attempting to get out of her dream and back into reality. She knew this was all a dream because there was no way the board of directors and art gallery manager suddenly wanted the seven artists for their promotion and advertisements, this was too easy. Then the door creaked open and it attracted Max's attention as her eyes came in sight with a cadaverous hand crawling across the wall. Chloe emerged from the door, but it wasn't actually "Chloe," it was Chloe from ten years ago when Nathan and her were having a confrontation together in the girls' restroom.

Max's eyes were getting very heavy and the air was getting thinner: the reality surrounding her began to squeeze together like papers crumbling against the laws of conservation and mass. She was suddenly awoke in the Dark Room: Jefferson was in front of her, administering what seems to be a syringe of adrenaline.

"I'm sorry, you have to see this, Max but I prefer my model conscious so you know what I'm about to impress upon you before you die." Jefferson was tapping the syringe. "You could scream and shout, but no one will come for you."

"What?" Max asked, gaining consciousness. "What did you do to Chloe?"

"Nothing: I didn't inflict any harm upon Chloe…because you wouldn't let me."

"What? You're dead like everyone else."

"Yes, my body no longer operate in the material world, but I am very much alive in your head, Max. Isn't time for you to stop thinking about me?" He took one of his special analog camera from the display and positioned himself correctly to locate the best spot to capture Max entirely. Before he pulled the trigger of his camera, he looked at Max with his dark, sunken eyes: "…also, I wanted to say my condolences: Chloe deserve so much better than the rest of the scums of Arcadia Bay." He said it so sardonically that Max was able to register his sarcasm. "Life is not fair…but who said life was ever fair." Max finally awoken from her nightmares as he flashed the camera.

She found herself in the hospital. Her eyes could barely opened as the obscured light from the sun penetrated her iris, making her eyes bleary and groggily. Her ears pricked up when her heart monitor continue trilling sporadically, and her body felt so heavy that she could barely move. Noises can be picked up from the distance as nurses and doctors chatter boisterously and jovially, which made Max more desperate to leave her bed. By the window was Chloe whom she couldn't see because of the light from the sun; seeing this, Chloe closed the curtains.

"Chloe…why am I in the hospital?" Max said, trying to gain some composure and consciousness.

"Emma found you having a seizure on the floor of the restroom so she called me and I took you to the nearest hospital. I could have called the ambulance, but I don't know if your health insurance covered ambulance cost."

"It does."

"Oh, well, silly me then."

"How long have I been here?" Chloe showed her the three fingers. "Three days!"

"No, three hours. Sorry about that."

"I'm really sorry about ruining tonight-"

"Max…you don't need to apologize."

"I meant you wanted to take your friends out to dinner after the gallery-slash-intervention…also how did I get hired immediately without an interview?"

"Jonathan and I pulled some strings: seeing that one of the directors enroll in the Alcohol Anonymous counseling, I happened to have some tricks up my sleeve."

"You…you-"

"NO! I did not sell my body to further your dreams. I helped him moderate his alcohol intake until he turned cold turkey, and he learned from me that you have sleep paralysis as well as his son. Small world, eh?."

"Uh-huh, thank you. I'm still sorry for everything."

"Don't blame yourself…and you should thanked Jonathan because it was the one pulling the entire mast."

"When can I leave from the hospital?"

"Tomorrow."

"Good." In this position, Max was willing to reveal what she had discovered this afternoon, and knowing Chloe, she wouldn't hurt Max while she was in no position of fighting. "Chloe, this afternoon, when you went to get takeouts, I found your burner phone and there was a call from Salem."

Chloe backed away from Max: "Slow down…Max, I bet it was a prank call or something."

"It wasn't, unless you have received the calls numerous time in your call history."

Chloe leered at her, feeling violated that she was snooping all over her stuff. "Max…I don't want to talk about this."

"No, we're having this talk, because if it wasn't for that call, I wouldn't be seeing dark, phantasmal entities in their attempts to try to kill me, trying to make it look like a suicide."

"It's all in your head, Max."

"Chloe, I'm not here to fight nor am I having this argument to blame you in anyway possible. But why didn't you tell me. She told me everything…between you and her…why did you have to keep it a secret? What's with all the secrets, Chloe?"

Chloe turned her back on Max and her face concealed in the shadow, staring at the curtains to see through the window. Her voice was stern and strong, unlike Max, who was whimpering and sobbing: "So how long do I have?"

"Not long, the woman said." Max stared solemnly at Chloe. "Chloe…why didn't you tell me that…you have cancer."

"Maybe…because it's not your burden to bear."

"What?" Max arched her eyebrows.

"I don't really what you to think this is the universe way of saying, 'your life is going to suck more because you fucked up Arcadia Bay.' I understand that my fate was to die in the restroom and, as much as I don't believe in destinies, I believe the universe is angry that you chose me over Arcadia Bay. It hurts me now that you have to find out on the phone than by me. I was going to tell you at the right time after I was ready and if I herald the good news for you; but I had never thought the results would turned out to be this terrible, so I tried to rehearse, because I didn't know what to say to you. It was scary." She rolled her eyes at the thought of her idiotic physician, who forgotten about the patient-doctor confidentiality. "Thanks a lot Dr. Ludwig for intervening into this; but then again, I have no idea on how to approach this to you anyway; I thought I would just die then you might get the hints later on."

"That's not funny, Chloe."

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to be funny."

"So, what are we supposed to do?" Max asked, wearily.

"Chloe leaned closer to Max, knowing she was not going to go on berserk mode. "I don't know…but probably hope for the best, even though the tumor is inoperable and untreatable. They'll try disintegrating the cancer cells, but the cost -" Chloe whistled "is astronomical."

Max pushed Chloe's shoulder. "We'll get through this, girlfriend; we always do."

"How?"

"I don't know we just can." Max embraced Chloe and in return Chloe accepted the hug, because she needed it, after all, she was dying but she didn't want it to disrupt Max's performance or debut at Attic Gallery. "I'm not going to let the universe take you away from me."

Max laid her head onto Chloe's shoulder and when she opened her eyes, she saw Mark Jefferson sitting on a chair across her, and smiling maliciously. His right leg was placed over his left leg; and his arms were crossed against his chest. He suppressed from saying anything as he dematerialized from the room.

She did not know what that meant but she couldn't care less: it was over, Mr. Jefferson. The ocean breeze scent of Chloe's color-dyed fragrance made her think of the sandy shores of the beach and the seagulls squawking and the suns setting down the horizon: it was a tranquil scene, and Max wanted to see Arcadia Bay…probably one last time with Chloe.


End file.
